Star Trek 2: The Wrath of Yarns

 

Captains Log Stardate: 201111.25

We were on a routine patrol in the outer rim of the North Shore Galaxy when we received a message from the Klingon medical outreach facility located on   Taah' ka Punaah, next to the desolate wastelands of M'ilf'orrrd and lapped by both the serene waters of Lake Pu' Puk' Ee and the oceans of Wai'aate M'aahtah.

We were called to rendezvous with Ambassador Flock from Vulcan, where important medical advances made by both sides would be discussed at a conference, and we were dispatched there to observe the proceedings.

We docked at the medical facility, making a smooth entrance through the dangerous Shak' Espeare Ro'aa'd approach where several smaller craft had come to grief amongst the treacherous outer rings.

We were greeted by the usual welcome extended to travellers, the traditional ticket of Pa-rrkin'g, which we accepted with a respectful nod of our heads. After docking in the bay, we proceeded to the upper levels of the medical complex, passing both the refectory and the dispensary. We abstained from sampling the local beverage, the F'laatwhi te', and hurried to the conference room.

The room was busy with dignitaries and their attendant staff from many worlds. We were greeted by Ambassador Flock, wearing his planets traditional costume.

We recognised several of the delegates and their home worlds by their distinctive appearance.

To our left sat His Imperial Highness An d'roo from the United Kingdom of Planets in the Euroapian galaxy. He wore the ancient mask of inhalation, traditional amongst the UK Planets. This indication of high status glowed softly through the haze of the vapours that surrounded him.

Across the room we acknowledged Ambassador Nanunannoo from Mork, who greeted us with the customary tri-fingered greeting, similar to that of Ambassador Flock from Vulcan.

To our left sat tne delegation from the planet of Vat Ikan, where Vice President N'drew waved to us, with arms extended in the sign of universal peace and pan galactic respect. His colourful gilded silken robes, encrusted with jewels, shimmerred in the haze of the conference room.

Behind him sat Queen L'Andm An of the planet Khidnee Tran-Splant wearing her imperial regalia, exuding an aura of reverence and commanding great respect for the ancient royal house of An. She acknowledged us with a subtle royal wave, as only a respected old queen can.

A hush fell upon the delegates as trumpeters announced the entrance of yet another dignitary, we craned our necks and were treated to a rare glimpse of the ancient and noble plenipotentiary from the B'aybee system. Dressed in the trademark swaddling clothes to denote dynastic heraldic lineage, the B'aybee crawled across the room and took his place amongst the assembled conference.

We all quietened down as the delegates began their conference and the hall filled with the buzz of quietly whispered conversations.

A gong sounded and we prepared ourselves as the time honoured tradition of vapourising was about to commence. The room was filled with a strange mix of gases, which we detected using Flock's spectrum analyser, both Ventolin and Pentamidine. The assembled throng quickly adorned themselves with specialist breathing equipment to maximise the benefits of the gases.

We absorbed the vapours through our nebulisers, which sat comfortably on our faces.

Ambassador Flock, told us that the Ventolin is used to open our lungs fully to absorb the magnificent Pentamidine. This drug, he told us calmly, is most beneficial to males of the species, but cytotoxic to the female. It can mirror the effects of a common Earth anti biotic, Co-trimoxazole, and is easily absorbed into the body through the lungs. 

The inhalation ceremony lasted just 15 earth minutes, and afterwards we detached the nebulisers from our faces and placed them in a secure bag for disposal, taking care to secure it firmly to avoid wrongful exposure.

We farewelled Ambassador Flock, and made our way back to the ship. In a few parsecs we reached our transport and set course for the Northern Spaceway at Warp Factor Nine, pausing only to exchange the ticket of Pa-rrkin'g for the traditional gift of a few valuable gold credits.

We reflected on the strange ceremony we just been privy to, it was indeed a great honour to be nebulised whilst at the medical facility. As we flew past the stars we received a message from Ambassador Flock, we were invited to repeat the whole ceremony next month at the same location.

Until then we would boldly go where no one had gone before...

Out, Damn'd spot! Out, I Say!

 

Prologue

You join us tonight for our little ditty,

about a rash that is most unpretty.

Tis a tale of woe and pustulation,

Can we make amends towards our restoration?

But this neither history nor an English lesson be, but a manuscript about me…eh Polonius?

but hark I hear him coming, let us withdraw my lord………

Scene : 1 Elsinore Castle, Denmark.

Enter Andrew, Prince of this blog, stage right, with flourish.

I have closely coexisted with my face since my earliest years, and apart from the occasional pimple we have been on fairly pleasant terms. I maintain my side of the traditional agreement, washing, scrubbing, and trimming erroneous hair follicles (am officially older as I have begun to sprout what can only be called nose hair). My days of youth have been slipping away quite unnoticed, while I continue to delude myself that I am still in my early thirties, my body decries all this by loudly announcing itself as forties plus, with a heavy emphasis on the plus.

As my health declined I first noticed the signs of End Stage Renal Failure when my kidney fell to 8% of the normal functioning capacity. Some of the obvious and tangible effects are a reduced output of urine, an overall sense of lethargy and an enduring metallic taste in the mouth, as my body was not able to filter out the toxins that were acquired throughout the day. All of these are well documented and I was pre warned what to expect from my super-efficient dialysis nurse. Accordingly it was no surprise that I only needed to visit the lavatory once in the morning. Imagine that, no more urgent dashes to the smallest room in the house.

The tiredness was as expected and I was able to get through the day, mostly with a power nap, which is where you paint eyeballs on your eyelids and snooze at your desk, whilst all those around you are oblivious to your state. Unless of course you happen to snore, which usually gives the game away.

As for the metallic taste, it can only be described as being akin to constantly licking a copper cornetto, slowly melting and depositing a strong tang on your tongue.

Unpleasant throughout, it eventually becomes bearable, but like those actors eating onions and garlic in Midsummers Night Dream, it doesn’t allow you to utter sweet breath, rather a variety of incongruous metallic flavours: Away! Go, away!

Much like the demise of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, these events were expected.

What was not expected was a constant bombardment of pimples, like the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Bravely at first, I resisted, hoping that by opposing, I might end them. However, the vicious onslaught continued until I surrendered and my face became a conquest of war.

Sc.2: Elsinore Castle, Denmark

Enter a messenger with two heads and a hand. 

After checking with several medical opinions as to whether the incidence of pimples was related to ESRF and dialysis, there were conflicting arguments. On one side it was felt that there was no relation between the two, however another view was held that the build-up of toxins in the body may manifest itself in the form of pimples. With this divided aspect I was no closer to understanding this visual facial torment and still at the mercy of the opposing foe.

Flourish, enter Andrew from behind arras

 Solus

So there I was, bepimpled again for the second instance in my life. The first time I was a lesser spotted teenager, enjoying late nights out and spending time socialising with my friends, but as time progressed I became a greater spotted adult, enjoying early nights in, and spending time facebooking with my virtual friends.

Exit stage left pursued by a bear. 

Now post transplant I have been completely clear of cutaneous collections of sebum, unblemished by any spot, pimple, or pustule! I can honestly say that since the first week in hospital after the operation my skin has completely healed up and given no more of nature's facial “gifts”. Maybe there is really no connection to the previous state of thrice weekly blood cleansing sessions, and the almost daily appearance of spots, but it is indeed most strange that the blemishes have gone, shuffled off this mortal coil, banished perhaps to a nunnery?

 Epilogue

Thank you for listening audience dear,

This short tale of poxes made suddenly clear,

The muse of ill health ever present and near

Now banished off stage where no one can hear.

So, on your patience evermore attending,

New joy wait on you! Here our play has ending.

For never was a story of more woe

Than this of Andrew and his face aglow

Cast Assembly to front stage for applause

Wherever I lay my hat (That’s my home)…..

Was a huge hit for the equally huge Mr Paul Young in the prehistoric era that was 1983, when records were made of vinyl and had a B side, not the latest mumbo jumbo extended remix available to download from Buytunes.

Now I admit that I am neither a skilled real estate or property lawyer, but even I am sure that the positioning of a hat does not convey property rights on the wearer? 

Merely draping a bonnet on a bungalow should not infer ownership, or the flinging of a fedora over a flat does not necessarily give you the right to call Pickfords….. 

Imagine the confusion at an auction with multiple buyers throwing their titfers around the auction room, as the bidding heats up and people attempt to secure their property bargain, whilst those fashionably attired in the latest creation by Philip Treacy could be landed with a rather more expensive purchase than the exquisite piece of frippery atop their lofty crowns.

Similarly an open home would look like Royal Ascot on Ladies Day, with hordes of excited millinery milling around, ready to make a offer at the drop of a hat.

You can just see the scene at Grace Brothers……

Oh yes Madam, it does suit Madam perfectly. And ideal for a spot of house buying.......

But enough frivolity and back to proper hats. 

There exist in life just a few hats that have truly captured the imagination of the public and passed into sartorial history;

Napoleon's chapeau for example:

then there was Monty’s beret:

who can forget Sherlock's Deerstalker:

and of course the gigantic pretzel worn by Princess Beatrice :

Gratifying to see her wearing an appropriately Germanic snack, given the Royal Family's heritage.

I understand from the dedicated followers of fashion that her precariously perched Treacy "fascinator" was a fashion faux pas, and fascinating for all the wrong reasons.

Now to add to these illustrious guardians of millinery couture can be added the outrageous sunhat, modelled here by a shy yours truly......

This exquisitely constructed headpiece, crafted from 100% starched cotton, tailored for maximum embarrassment factor, and lovingly hand made in the People's Republic, has but one redeeming feature. It has a UVPF of 50+, which allows it to perform its' sun related duties to the max, affording its' wearer excellent UV protection.

This is important to transplant patients because we are four times more likely to develop skin melanoma than supposed “normal” people. Transplant patients require the long-term use of immunosuppressant medications to prevent organ rejection but they impair the capacity of the immune system to repair or destroy UV damaged cells, allowing damaged cells to develop into melanoma and ultimately cancers. It is also possible that the immunosuppressant medications directly cause cancer generating changes in cells. Additionally, human papilloma virus (HPV), which causes warts may also be involved in the development of  skin cancers in transplant recipients.

All transplant patients have a greater chance of developing skin cancer compared to the general population. This risk increases with each subsequent year following your transplant. At 5 years after transplant, some studies suggest that approximately 5% of transplant patients will develop skin cancer. At 10-years, approximately 10% of transplant patients develop skin cancer. The risk for skin cancer may vary with the type of transplant. Cardiac and kidney transplant patients seem to develop skin cancer more frequently, of course!

Hooray, I'm going to develop skin abnormalities and as the years progress I shall look like a warty old toad!

But on a serious note, this is a major change in my lifestyle, with doctors recommending that I use SPF sunscreen daily, cover up in long sleeves in the sun, wear sunglasses and a sunhat, and avoid exposure to the sun especially during midday when the UV rays are at their highest.

This is of course general good practice and not just for transplanted people, and the NZ govt does run a good campaign to Slip, Slop, Slap and Wrap with the Sunsmart programme : www.sunsmart.org.nz  

Using a giant prawn to cover up with lettuce and dressing to avoid the UV rays seems a bit silly to me. I prefer to use Nivea SPF 30, not Paul Newmans Thousand Island.

But still good advice all the same, as NZ has the highest incidence of melanoma in the world. We are not just world winners in rugby, it would appear that our devotion to the outdoors makes us world winners when it comes to skin cancer, of course having a hole in the ozone layer above the country doesn't help. 

 

Beach attire and good practice do exist in the good old UK, where it is normal for holiday makers unused to the sun to stay in their hotel room for the first 2 weeks of the holiday wearing a pullover and a hat, before moving on to outside attired in traditional British beach wear:

Or if abroad we adopt traditional British colonial costume, and look frightfully reserved as we sip Pimms and complain about the heat and the food. Observe the typical Brit abroad in traditional tropical gear; shorts, socks, camera and a sensibly wide brimmed hat......

So that is why I have Indiana Jones' less successful brother's hat. I don't object to the hat, but draw a line at wearing lettuce and a salad dressing.

 

Now of course if I were to move country I would be exposed to less harmful UV rays.......Mmmmm...

That's it, get me Pickfords on the phone, and fetch me my house hunting hat!  

Please sir can I have some Moore?

Observe the orthography if you will, we are not in Dickens territory,  but in the grown up boys world of Ian Fleming, and perhaps the best loved of all the actors to reprise the role of 007 Mr Roger Moore.

How does this fit in with my blog? (apart from it being MY blog and therefore can introduce whomsoever I desire....), oh Good Evening Mr and Mrs Noah, mislaid one of the pair of the white cats for your upcoming nautical adventure?

  But I digress, I have managed to escape from the jaws

of those cool and aloof world dominating villains, Dr. Diabetes and Colonel Kidney Failure with all their attendant evil henchmen.

(I often wonder during these films what it must be like to be a henchman; presumably they have lives outside the evil organisation they have opted to work in? To have their lives extinguished (as they invariably are…. 
(oh look at the evil henchman, How long will he last in this scene?) 
belies the fact that before they joined the malign employer they had a life before that. They once were little hench babies and children, then went to a hench school as hench students, went on to hench college or university (for the higher achieving henchmen, in charge of evil physics labs and twisted science facilities) before embarking out in their chosen career as an evil henchman. Following an advert in the local paper, they invariably attend an interview with Evil human resources at the Evil Organisation Inc.

So Mr Henchman Where do you see yourself in 5 years’ time? Can you describe the qualities required for this henchman role? Imagine you are in control of a secret nuclear plant and a British secret agent attacks you from behind: how would you react?

To which of course the HR Dept  is looking for the following answers:

 In 5 years’ time you will be dead, either killed by MI6 or sacrificed by our own evil Chairman in his devilish plot to destroy the world.

We require unquestioning loyalty and a distinctly neutral attitude to mass destruction.

When attacked by 007, typically you would fall down dead, or in extreme circumstances throw yourself over a balcony.

As a reward for helping to facilitate global destruction you can expect a free uniform, a generous healthcare scheme to aid with all the injuries you are likely to encounter, not to mention the camaraderie of working alongside fellow evil minded colleagues. Alas there is no pension as you will undoubtedly be killed long before retirement age.

But back to the narrative….

There have been a few minor wobbles along the way, mainly to do with the kidney side of matters, but the one constant since July has been the total success of the operation to target and destroy the life endangering diabetes.

leaving me unrestricted in my eating habits, feasting as I do every day on simple fare:

Indeed I have begun to develop a new liking for previously untested treats, for example something as ordinary as good old ice cream, which was previously taken in moderation, can now be eaten without a care. I often can be espied upon the sofa with a delicious bowl of French Vanilla readying for my feast, moulding and shaping the cone of cold desert prior to consuming. for which I use my trusted untensils, a mould finger and a spoon raker.

Other new treats to my palate include the tradition of morning and afternoon tea with all the attendant cakes and fancies that come with that fine English tradition, as modelled here by the charmingly evil Dr Hugo Drax.

I have also discovered the delicious delights of the Ginger Crunch Slice, the Coffee and Walnut Slice and many more slices known to mankind. Truly wicked, but after 40 years of abstentia can you blame me? 
As I slowly and sensuously peel off the wrapper from a Mars Bar, it appears to wink in coquettish allure, surely it says I am your treat to behold and savour, to linger over the chocolate yumminess,  for your eyes only. I take the plunge and devour the morsel only to realise that only four months ago this very type of sensory visual treat surely would be a view to a kill.

But I must resist this temptation of treats, out of respect for my new organs, and to encourage a sensible healthy diet. There is ultimately nothing wrong with a diabetic diet, in many ways it is the optimum omnivore regime, being as well balanced as a symmetrically even steak and cheese pie.

Did I neglect to inform you dear readers of the adoring nature of the humble kiwi pie? 
Often seen as a mere accesssory at every kiwi garage and dairy, the glorious pastry delight can truly fill both your stomach and soul (I think you may have twigged where this is going). 
Indeed I can attest to the reciprocal fondness that spans the divide between pie hunter and the hunted prey, as expressed by Carly Simon in her song The Pie Who Loved Me. 

The Broccoli ones are the best......).

I defy anyone out there over 30 not to join in the titles with your imaginary finger gun, moving slowly and gracefully pointing at invisible henchmen and nubile silhouetted Bond girls.

                

But enough of this indulgent lack of self control (No go away Laura Brannigan, this my blog, stop singing and live and let die).

However after trying a few of the previously forbidden confections, I promise to exercise more dietary restraint.    

What do you mean you don't believe me.......?

After all my word is my Bond.




Alan Partridge runs us through the best Bond opening sequence ever.

The Mime of your Life!

Greetings fellow bloghoppers. In a possible world first for a NZ blog I shall be expressing this web update using the universal medium of mime. I am already aware of a couple of blogs out in the webisphere that devote themselves to the subject, but I strongly believe that there are currently insufficient blogs that are themselves styled in mime, a terrible injustice that in will attempt to rectify today. For those unversed in phonemic visualizations, a translation will accompany the mime....

Hello and welcome my petits chaufleurs!

Keeping up so far?

Blood Pressure was good today, nice and high for a change

Soon I will be....

Aarrgghh....This doesnt feel right...Bleugggghhh...!

 You don't deserve the power of Madonna… simply put, you have all the sexuality of all those pandas down at the zoo, who refuse to mate

 Strike a pose, there’s nothing to it,....Vogue.

(That's enough... stop the miming!)

Now I see why this has not spread like wildfire through the blogging community....

Elsewhere in my world we have been blessed by a return to work, or at least my colleagues have been blessed by my return, after weeks of what can only be termed a bit of a dodgy tummy (without going into details) The source of the “bug” was traced back to my local pharmacy who dispensed my last dose of what I call Mycophenylate (anti rejection drug) instead of the prescribed 2 x 250mg tablets, but in one 500mg capsule. 

So of course being a mere mortal and an institutionally obedient disciple of the medical fraternity, I followed my renal quacks instructions absolutely to take 2 x thrice per day. 

Now this MycoFeminate has a side effect most dire, and I dont think you need to be Einsten to have some prescient knowledge of the outcome.

I wont refer to the precise details, but my bowel being the peculiary explosive entity that it is (it has been observed sneaking onto the set of Eastenders and erupting like Peggy Mitchell) took to the double dosage of MycoFelicityKendallate like a bad-tempered loose bowelled duck to water.

After many immodiums later, I accosted the poor pharmacist for her erroneous dispensation. We both stood our ground facing off at each other, until she pointed out, somewhat smugly I might add, that I had actually read the printed dose incorrectly. Of course, I have now dispensed (!) with that chemist, and taken my most lucrative trade in Pharmac subsidies elsewhere. The resulting mistake has been rectified and now like a graceful swan my life carries on its contented and exploratory new path. "Follow the yellow brick road...."

                                                     (minus the ruby slippers and Toto)

The return to work has been most excellent and I have been literally touched by the number of colleagues bursting into spontaneous hugs. Of course these public displays of affection, whilst gratefully received put a Brit in an eternal dichotomy. How does one react? Do we just hug, or is a kiss appropriate, or do we just lightly embrace? How hard should the embrace be? A manly reach of Octopus proportions, or a semi soft quick touch around the external extremities?

These are frankly ideas most foreign to the Brit, as we spend most of our time being wrapped up in duffel coats to keep out the cold, and refuse to even address a chap by first name terms unless our parents have been introduced, especially if you went an independent school. In which case names such as Pongo, Sledgy, Warts-Johnson, and Tinkerbell are absolutely mandatory until marriage, unless you then join the Armed Forces in which case they append to “ Pongo.....Sir!”.

Of course one has to acclimatise to the local customs, and therefore the usual British disdain of bodily contact has been replaced by yet another new feeling, that of humility and awe;  That my friends care so much about my welfare and wellbeing and were able to express it so unequivocably. As a result, as I drove home tonight, I had plenty of time to reflect on this hopefully genuine and spontaneous warmth and was ultimately left, like a mime artist, quite speechless. Thanks guys!